“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” I reply. “And how do you know I should keep it on for that long? Were you a doctor in the Army? Or a medic?”
Though I don’t know a lot about Webb, during our brief conversations in the diner he’s shared that he used to be in the Army, but chose not to renew his contract when it came up three years ago. From there, he worked in New York for a couple of years before moving to the West Coast to join a security company.
Oh, and he’s also told me about his love of the outdoors, grown from the camping trips he used to go on with his dad, how his favorite teams are the Steelers and the Pirates, and since he moved here a year ago, he’s been on a quest to try all the best craft beers in the Pacific Northwest.
So I guess I actually know more about him than I thought.
While I wait for his response, I spin his possible answers in my head. Could he have been a military doctor? Or was he a combat medic, risking his life to save others? Unless he wasn’t in the medical field at all. Maybe he was in Army intelligence. Or he was an enlisted soldier, the first to rush into battle.
A weird sensation hits me, like a fist wrenching my heart.
I don’t like the idea of Webb in danger. Not that I’d want that for anyone I know, but with Webb? There’s a bone-deep wrongness to it.
“Not a doctor or medic,” he says with a smile. “Although I’ve taken plenty of first aid courses. It’s from experience. After nearly twenty years in the Army, I’ve had my fair share of sprains and bruises.”
“Here you go,” our server announces. She sets our lattes and plates of carrot cake down with a clatter. Then she sets a whitepaper bag down with a soft thunk. Her voice is significantly less friendly than before. “Do you need anything else?”
At first, I’m confused about her sudden change of mood. Then I notice her gaze move from Webb’s hand, which is still holding the ice to my arm, to his eyes, which are completely focused on me.
Part of me wants to explain to her that it’s nothing. That he’s not really interested in me. That his attention stems only from concern. That if she sees him around town, she might have a chance with him.
Is that true, though? Really?
Am I going to pretend I haven’t noticed that he intentionally sits in my section whenever he comes into the diner? Or the hopeful looks he gives me whenever he asks about my plans for the upcoming weekend? Will I really insist that every brush of his fingers against mine when he hands me back the check book is accidental?
I may not have a lot of dating experience, but I have enough to know when a man is interested. And the signs Webb’s been giving me all say the same thing. He likes me. He’s attracted to me. And he’d ask me out if I gave him the slightest encouragement.
If I’d met Webb at the diner around the corner from my old theater in Portland, back when things were still normal, I probably would have. When he asked what I was up to for the weekend, I would have said something like, “Oh, not much. Just puttering around the house, really. Although I was thinking of a hike, or maybe checking out the new restaurant that just opened near me. What about you?”
But things are very muchnotnormal, as evidenced by the awful text I just got. And from the fact that I’m not living in my garden apartment in Portland anymore, but a small studio above a garage in Williston.
Oh, and I’m not a stage manager anymore, because my dream career went down the tubes along with the rest of my life.
So it’s probably not the best time to think about dating, no matter how nice Webb is. Even if his touch gives me chills in the most delicious of ways and the best part of my shift is when he comes in.
“Nothing else,” Webb replies without taking his attention from me. “Thanks.”
As soon as she leaves, he says, “I was a pilot, actually.”
“A pilot?” I’m immediately hit with the image of Webb in a fighter plane, dive bombing an enemy encampment, dodging gunfire and missiles as he weaves through the air.
He leans across the table. His voice dips. “A helicopter pilot. I don’t usually tell people what I did specifically, because it leads to a lot of questions I can’t answer.”
I feel like smacking myself. Of course, he wasn’t a fighter pilot. That would be the Air Force, wouldn’t it? Or would it? Crap. My knowledge about the military is cobbled together from books and movies, which I’m sure isn’t terribly accurate.
I make a mental note to myself—research the Army when I get home.Just to educate myself, not because I want to know more about Webb’s experiences.
“Why would there be questions you couldn’t answer?” I ask.
His smile sobers. “Because I was a Night Stalker. And a lot of the ops I was on, the details were confidential. I couldn’t tell anyone who wasn’t involved about them. Not my friends, not my mother, not anyone.”
“A Night Stalker?” It sounds familiar, and after combing through my memories for a few seconds, I remember where I’ve heard of them before. It was not long after my dad died, and I had been having trouble sleeping. So I’d taken to watching TV until my eyes couldn’t stay open anymore and I’d finally get at least a few hours of sleep.
The movie—I can’t remember the title of it—was about a team of Green Berets on a mission in Afghanistan. They ended up in trouble, and a helicopter flown by two Night Stalkers made a daring nighttime rescue to save them. In the movie, the helicopter was being shot at as it flew away, and one of the Night Stalkers who was piloting it was hit and nearly killed.
“That was really dangerous, wasn’t it?” I ask. “I don’t know much about the Army, but I saw this movie…”
Webb takes the ice from my arm and brushes his thumb across it. Unexpectedly, shivers zip through my body. He pushes my latte towards me and says, “Drink. I promised you?—”
